“I am not!” Philippa shouted, furious now. “I might look like a witch, but I’m not!”
Dienwald gazed at the hideous apparition, and it was his turn to laugh. “Philippa de Beauchamp, you say? From my vantage, ‘tis barely female you appear, and such an unappetizing female that my dogs would cringe away from you. In addition, you have likely spoiled some of my wool.”
“She will curse us, Papa!”
“Your wool? Ha! ‘Tis my father’s wool and you are nothing more than a common thief. As for you, you loud crude boy, I am mightily tempted to curse you.”
Edmund shrieked, and Dienwald began to laugh. His people looked at him, then at the female creature, and they began to laugh as well, their chuckles swelling into a great noise. Philippa saw a misshapen fellow standing near the steps to the great hall, and even he was cackling wildly.
She wished now she’d lied. If she’d claimed to be a wench from a village, perhaps he’d simply have let her leave. But no, she’d told the truth—like a fool. How could she have imagined chivalry from a man who’d stolen two wagons of wool? Well, there was no hope for it. Up went her wool-clumped chin. “I am Philippa de Beauchamp. I demand that you give me respect.”
The moment the creature had opened her mouth, Dienwald realized she wasn’t an escaped serf or a girl from the village of St. Erth. She spoke like a gentlewoman—all arrogant, and loud, and haughty—like a queen caught in the jakes with her skirts up, yelling at the person who’d seen her. What the devil was this damned female doing hidden in a wool wagon, stinking like a hog’s entrails, and covered with slime?
“I have long thought Lord Henry to be a red-nosed glutton whose girth makes his horses neigh in dread of carrying his bulk, but even he couldn’t have been cursed with such as you. Now, get you down from the wagon.” Dienwald watched her weave about, gain her balance, and climb down. She was very tall, and his villeins moved away from her, especially those unfortunate enough to be downwind of her. She stood on the ground, watching him, looking so awful it would curdle the blood of the unwary. He let Philbo back away from the fright and shouted at her, “Don’t move!”
Dienwald dismounted, tossed the reins to his master-at-arms, Eldwin, and strode over to the well. He filled a bucket, then returned to the wagon. Without hesitation, he threw the bucket of water over her head. She wheezed and shrieked and jerked about, and some of the wool rolled off her body and tunic. He could see her face now, and it wasn’t hideous, just filthy. “More water, Egbert!”
“Water alone won’t get me clean,” Philippa said, gasping from the shock of the cold water. But she was grateful; she could now sniff herself without wanting to gag. She licked her lips and gratefully swallowed the drops of water that remained.
“I can’t very well strip you naked here in my inner ward and hand you a chunk of lye soap. I mean, I could, but since you claim to be a lady, you would no doubt shriek were your modesty defiled.”
A howl of laughter met this jest, and Philippa tried not to react. She said, calm as a snake sunning itself on a warm rock, “Couldn’t I have the soap and perhaps go behind one of your outbuildings?”
“I don’t know. My cat has just had kittens back there, and I hesitate to have her so frightened that her milk dries up.” Dienwald felt the laughter billowing up again. He yelled for lye soap; then added, “Egbert, take the creature behind the cookhouse and leave her be. Look first for Eleanor. If she and her kittens are there, take the creature behind the barracks. Agnes, fetch clean clothes for her and attend her. Then bring her to me—but only when she no longer offends the nose.”
“But, Papa, she’s a witch!”
“Officious little boy,” Philippa said as she turned on her bare heel—her boots were buried somewhere in the wool—and followed the man with the wonderful bucket of water.
“Careful
what you call the creature, young Edmund,” Crooky said, hobbling up. “It might cast a foul spell on you. Thass a relic from Hades, master.” He threw back his head and cleared his throat. Dienwald, recognizing all too well the signs, yelled, “Keep your lips stitched, fool! No, not a word, Crooky, not a single foul rhyme out of your twitching mouth.
“As for you, Edmund,” he continued to his son, “the creature isn’t a relic. Relics don’t turn your stomach with their stench, nor have I ever seen a relic that talked back to me. Now, let’s have our wool begin its progress into cloth and into tunics. Prink! Get your fat arse out here!”
3
“The well will go dry before the creature is clean enough for mortal viewing and smelling,” Dienwald said, rubbing his jaw as he spoke.
“Aye, thass the truth,” said Northbert, who was sniffing the wool. “ ‘Tis not a virtuous smell, my lord,” he added, picking up a clump of wool and bringing it to his nose, an appendage flattened some ten years before by a well-aimed stone.
“We’ll let Old Agnes deal with it,” Dienwald said.
“There she comes!” Edmund shouted.
Dienwald looked up at his son’s yell. Indeed, he thought, staring at the female vision striding toward him, barefoot, the rough gown nearly threadbare and loose everywhere except her breasts. Her hair was a damp wild halo around her head, hair the color of dark honey and fall leaves and rich brown dirt, and growing curlier by the minute as it dried.
She walked up to him, stopped, looked him squarely in the eye, and said, “I am Philippa de Beauchamp. You are a thief, but you also appear to be master of this castle and thus my host. What is your name?”
“Dienwald de Fortenberry. Aye, I am lord of this castle and master of all those herein, including you. Now, I have much to say to you, and I don’t wish to speak in front of all my people. Follow me.”
He turned without another word and strode across the dusty inner bailey toward the great hall. He was tall, she saw, following in his wake, some three or four inches taller than she was, and straight as a lance and just as solid. She couldn’t see a patch of fat on him. He was also tough-looking and younger than she’d first thought when she heard him giving orders after his theft of the wool wagons. He wasn’t all that much older than she, but he was treacherous—he’d already proved that. He was naught but a thief without remorse. She had still to see if he had the slightest bit of chivalry.
Dienwald de Fortenberry. She turned pale with sudden memory and was grateful he wasn’t looking at her to see her face. She’d heard tales of him since she was ten years old. He was known variously as the Rogue of Cornwall, the Scourge, and the Devil’s Blight. When de Fortenberry chanced to plunder or rob or pillage close to Beauchamp lands, Lord Henry would shake his fist in the air, spit in the rushes, and scream, “That damnable bastard should be cleaved into three parts!” Why three parts, no one at Beauchamp had ever dared to ask. She should never have told him who she was. She’d been ten times a fool. Now it was too late. He was master of this castle.
The great hall was shadowed and gloomy, with smoke-blackened beams supporting the high ceiling, and only a half-dozen narrow windows covered with hides. The floor rushes snapped and crackled beneath her bare feet, and several times she felt one of the twigs dig into her sole—a twig or mayhap a discarded bone. There wasn’t much of an odor, just a stale smell. She watched the man wave away poorly garbed servants, several men-at-arms, the crooked-backed fellow, and the small boy whom she assumed was his son. Where was his wife? He had a son; surely he had a wife. On the other hand, what woman would want to be wedded to a scourge or a blight or a bastard? Philippa watched him sit down in the lord’s chair, a high-backed affair of goodly proportions that had been made by a carpenter with some skill and a love of ornamentation. “Come here,” the Scourge of Cornwall said, and crooked his finger at her.
No one had ever crooked a finger at her in such a peremptory way. Not even Lord Henry in his most officious moments.